


Candle / Mirror

by geoclaire



Series: better to light a candle than to curse the darkness [2]
Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: F/F, Floor Sex, NSFW, Stockings, Toys, honestly quite impressively dirty, recovery fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoclaire/pseuds/geoclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah wasn't always rough; she'd just upgraded when she became convinced that Cosima could take it. When this first started she wasn’t rough at all, would coax Cosima under the covers even as she slid her clothes slowly off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candle / Mirror

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shesjustweird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesjustweird/gifts).



> "There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

Sarah’s weight is heavy on her hips, holding her to the floor. The carpet is rough under her ankles, rising to her calves where her skirt is rapidly being rucked up. Sarah’s hands are on Cosima’s shoulders, keeping her from lifting anything other than her head as they kiss.

And Sarah kisses like she’s trying to prove something, trying to press insistence and attachment into her skin. It isn’t gentle, but Cosima likes the honesty of it, the way Sarah tugs and nips and licks at her mouth and lips, the way it seems to ingrain Sarah right down into her cells. No scientist could measure the extent of their merging (their cells are identical after all), but she feels that kiss in every drop of her blood.

Sarah is urgent, her hands sliding down Cosima’s body; they catch at her breasts, squeezing her nipples briefly, then wrap around her thighs, pulling her skirt up swiftly. Cosima lifts her hips, her weight shifting to her shoulders on the floor, and Sarah pulls her underwear off in a single, practiced movement before she lets Cosima drop down again. Then she’s gazing down at her, Cosima’s underwear crumpled in her left hand, and Cos wants to cover herself a little; but what does she have that Sarah doesn’t? And anyway she’s already seen everything there is to see.

And yet Sarah’s voice is unusually husky when she asks, “Weren’t you wearin’ stockings this morning?”

Cosima clenches involuntarily, her thigh muscle spasming to tightness without conscious thought. And yes, she was wearing knee high tights when she left this morning, and the thought that Sarah noticed, has been thinking about it, makes her blood run hot and rush between her legs. “Yeah,” she mumbles. Sarah’s seen her twitch, she can tell from the jump of her cheek muscle, but Cosima tries hard to keep her tone even, “Yeah, but I took them off when I got home.”

Sarah smirks. “Pity,” she says, her right hand on Cosima’s ankle caressing the skin slowly. Cosima tries not to twitch again.

The lack of her stockings clearly doesn’t faze Sarah. She slips Cosima’s legs apart with the hand on her ankle, hums appreciatively, then drops onto her elbows, her face even with Cosima’s knees. Cosima bites her lip, a shiver running right down her spine, and Sarah elbow crawls forward just enough to put her face between Cosima’s legs.

(She had a lot of practice, by now).

Sarah kisses like she’s trying to prove something, but when she goes down on Cosim she means to achieve something. What that is changes between occasions: sometimes she’s trying to make Cosima come, sometimes trying to make her scream, but most often trying to use her mouth and lips and tongue and breath to make her as wet as humanly possible. From the way Sarah is lapping at her folds, circling but barely touching her clit, and using her breath to tease every iota of her skin, it could be any one of the three. Judging by the way Sarah’s rubbing her hand between her own legs, her pelvis impatiently rocking against the floor, it’s probably the last. Cosima groans, god knows they aren’t mutually exclusive intentions.

Sarah slides her hands below Cosima’s thighs, spreading her more open, and Cosima tries to remember to breathe. Then Sarah is kissing her clit, one thumb coming up to pull back the hood, and Cosima convulses against the floor. Sarah smiles, narrowly missing losing a tooth against Cosima’s pubic bone, and sets to with a will, licking all around her clit with tiny, quick strikes that tease and arouse in one. Cosima groans again, clutching at the carpet, the sound deep from low in her lungs, and Sarah begins gently to suck.

From there, it’s inevitable. Cosima writhes on the carpet, her shirt and skirt irreversibly tangled beneath her, and bucks and groans, a hand on the carpet and a hand in Sarah’s hair, holding her face tightly to her cunt. Sarah, who _will not_ be directed in any other aspect of her life, accepts the touch and presses closer, licking ever faster, nuzzling ever closer into Cosima.

She comes on a rush of fluid, like every other time Sarah has done this to her. Judging by the hand Sarah has in her own pants, that’s probably the idea: Cosima hasn’t had sex with a guy in years, and Sarah has some fundamental objection to lube. If Sarah wants to rock her favourite toy, she needs another way to make Cosima wet, and using her mouth is almost habit now.

(Sarah isn’t always rough, you see. When this first started she wasn’t rough at all, would coax Cosima under the covers even as she slid her clothes slowly off. She’d used her mouth so gently that Cosima could bear it, even want it, in the worst days where her body was coming apart at the seams. She’d coax Cosima into the desire to stay alive.)

Now, though, Sarah’s rearing back onto her knees, her hair a wild mess about her face. She has one hand still inside the front of her pants, stroking, but now the other goes to her zipper and she’s sliding the strap-on out the fly of her skinny jeans, the relief of the release of pressure obvious on her face. She’s fully dressed otherwise, her jacket thrown to the floor but her striped singlet and boots still firmly in place. Cosima swallows, a hand reaching to Sarah, and then she was between her legs again, her hips already canting up and against Cosima’s sensitive skin.

It’s impossible not to respond to Sarah like this, not to yearn for the thrill of her touch. Cosima rocks her hips up, pressing into Sarah, and she’s the one to groan now, eyes closing against the pressure inside her. Cosima smiles and does it again, stifling her gasp at the slide of the toy against her. It isn’t small; Sarah has tended to trade up each time she becomes convinced Cosima can handle it. She reaches down to touch it, lining it up for Sarah to push into her, only to be batted away. Sarah slips her fingers into Cosima instead, testing her response, and she gasps at the touch, rolling her weight up to her shoulders in her spasm.

Sarah smirks, but her touch is tender, working her way into Cosima and ensuring she’s entirely slick and ready. “Okay?” she asks, and there’s so much in the word.

"Yeah," she says faintly, remembering to lower her hips down again. Then "Yeah. I’m okay."

Sarah meets her eyes and smiles into them, even as her fingers slip out of Cosima and back to the toy. Then Cosima can’t keep her eyes open anyway, because Sarah is guiding it into her, pushing slow and steady until she can’t go any further.

"Yes?" asks Sarah again, and Cosima moans, throbs, murmurs, " _yes_.”

Sarah - lovely, wild Sarah - slides back a little, then forward, then finds her rhythm to rock into Cosima steadily. She brings up her knees in response, spreading her legs further, and Sarah grunts, and puts a hand on her thigh. It seems to help her balance, because her rhythm doesn’t pause but now she’s pressing deeper. Cosima clenches the carpet, her breath starting to sound in her throat, and tightens her knees about Sarah.

(When this started, any catch of her breath would be enough to make Sarah pause. More than once they’d had to abort, with coughed blood staining the sheets and their bodies. Cosima had cried with her frustration and grief, but Sarah hadn’t given in. She’d seemed to feel Cosima could be tempted into living, had reminded her a dozen dozen times that her body could bring her pleasure, not merely pain.)

Maybe it’s about the specifics of the toy, but lately Sarah wants to take her like this more than anyone else Cosima has been with. There have been women who watched her, the way her face twists and crumples, and how her fists grasp at their hips, and get off on that (and Cosima’s been on the other end of the toy, and found her own thrill from thrusting and grinding women towards insensible gasping and clutching and sweaty curls across the pillow), but Sarah’s motivation seems to go well beyond that. She groans and grinds against Cosima when they fuck, maximises friction for them both while she bites her lips and sweats with the strain. It does it for her. But she always ensures Cosima comes first; Cosima’s seen her hold on past what must surely be the point of pain.

And her intent look is always enough to nudge Cosima higher. It presses her into gasping at her every move, and she grabs now for Sarah’s hips instead of the floor. She’s rolling her hips up to meet Sarah, starting to clutch at the toy internally, and Sarah can always tell from the way it’s suddenly harder for her to move.

Sarah smirks at her responsiveness, but is rapidly distracted. Her hips are working harder now, grinding Cosima down into the carpet, which is beginning to burn on Cosima’s ass. She ignores it to grab at Sarah’s shoulders and yank her down into a messy kiss, their teeth knocking together. Sarah puts her hand on Cosima’s face and she’s smushing her glasses against her cheek, but it doesn’t matter; their lips press and slide and she finds herself licking at Sarah’s mouth, trying to maintain the contact.

It’s good, so good, and Cosima has to turn away to pant for breath before Sarah pulls her back to nip at her lower lip. The stakes are rising: there’s delicious tendrils of orgasm building through her lower back, teasing at her hips and thighs and breasts. And it’s good, but usually… usually there’s an edge where she can’t go any further, she reaches a point where her body can’t handle more and slides into orgasm almost by default, slipping rather than being thrown. And now it’s not like that; it’s amazing, the way Sarah is pressing into her, grinding slick against her clit and breathing heavy in her ear, and yet she’s found this extra capacity to hold on, something she hasn’t had in months. It’s enough to make her want more.

She slides her hands from Sarah’s shoulders to her lower back and hips, guiding her thrusts more forcefully. It makes Sarah stutter in her rhythm, not expecting the interference, but Cosima catches her eyes and Sarah takes a second and recovers her timing. Cosima holds her gaze as best she can, moaning deep in her throat, and rocks her hips up hard.

(Their sex had been so one sided for so long, Sarah had actually been surprised the first time Cosima succeeded in touching her back. Once Sarah had slid from between her legs, Cosima would often be asleep by the time Sarah’d pulled the sheets up, whether or not she’d been able to come. It had taken weeks and multiple efforts to be able to touch Sarah, and it always seemed to be secondary to Sarah’s desire to touch her.

(So much time, and Sarah always seemed a little startled when Cosima took any kind of control))

Sarah growls at the movement, and pulses her rhythm, moving to a short, sharp stroke that Cosima struggles to match. Her whole face is tensed now, sweat sticking her hair to her cheeks, and her eyes are huge and dark and deep, the pupils totally blown. The wet noises they’re making together are obscene, and Cosima can feel her heartbeat everywhere from her clitoris to her ears, her blood pounding a dull rush. It’s difficult now to remember why it is she’s resisting Sarah’s efforts to fuck her into oblivion when her every cell yearns for it. But she sees Sarah’s intent face again, her jaw tensed with pure focus and control, and she knows. She wants Sarah to finally let it go.

She lifts her knees with effort from where they’re spread on the floor, wrapping her legs instead around Sarah’s ass, pulling her close with her feet. Awareness flares in Sarah’s eyes, stubbornly resisting the new constraint, but Cosima ignores it to pull her closer. She grabs for Sarah’s neck, bringing her down hard enough to bite at her collarbone and shoulder. Then when Sarah tenses, writhing against the touch, she lifts her mouth to her ear and hisses, “Sarah, _fuck_ me.”

It unleashes Sarah. She has Cosima’s hands pinned to the floor before she can move, her look feral. She drives into Cosima so hard she moves backward on the floor, even as she looses a high moan. Sarah doesn’t respond, she’s already pulling back into the cage of Cosima’s legs, shoving forward, all sense of deliberation lost to her rutting hips.

Cosima has to roll her head and shoulders right down, anchoring herself, to stop from being thrust across the floor. Sarah’s breathing hard in her ear, gasping for air, her face becoming brighter and brighter red as she pistons her hips. Oxygen is in short supply, but there’s heat building through her like fire, Sarah’s hard strokes into her building friction as sure as the carpet on her behind. She wants to hold on, wants to see Sarah come, but the bowl of her pelvis has become hot liquid, building pressure until she hasn’t the bones she needs to hold on.

But then Sarah’s nearly there, she can feel it. Feel it in the way Sarah throttles against her, her strokes shorter and harder, falling out of rhythm. In the way her breath is quick, uneven, damp against her neck. In the tension under her feet, where Sarah’s ass muscles work insistently away, determined to make them both come. In the way Sarah has given up trying to meet her eyes, too distracted by fulfilling their mutual need.

There’s only one more thing she knows to do, that makes Sarah crazy. She has to pause and breathe deep simply to control her nerves long enough to twist a hand free from Sarah’s grasp, deliberately ignoring the delicious building in her cunt all the way. She has to wait again, biting her lip, before she can slide her hand between their bodies to toy with her own clit.

Sarah knows, immediately. Cosima sees lust sweep her in a wave, sees her face turn scarlet, feels her hips turn frantic and spasmodic and her own internal tensing and then Sarah groans, groans, groans, calls out -

“COSIMA! Cos -” and comes.

But she’s distracted by then, caught in the wet hot spasm of her own orgasm, pulsing in long fluid bursts around Sarah’s favourite toy.

 

(She had never asked for it, before.

Sarah had come to her, hopeful, had come to her and offered, had come to her and asked, or started, or coaxed her into trying. Sarah had touched and teased her, had stroked her and kissed her, had tried to love her into living. She’d been so gentle.

Then one day a test came back positive, with a better result. Another. Blood tests, scans, x-rays, and somehow she was getting better. Sarah still took her to bed several times a week, still touched her like she was precious. She was still shocked when Cosima started reciprocating successfully in bed.

Cosima was discharged for the final time from the hospital, and Sarah stopped seeming so damned frightened all the time. She remembered to laugh with her sometimes, to cuddle and kiss and have a sex life that didn’t focus solely on Cosima’s pleasure. She loosened up a little, learned the edges of what Cosima could and couldn’t handle.

She never, ever, not for a second, lost control.

(Cosima never asked her to))

 

 

Sarah slumps against her, and Cosima closes her eyes, tilts her head back to just breathe for long minutes. Sarah’s still inside her and it’ll get uncomfortable, but she doesn’t want to move yet, wants to lie here and just enjoy this moment with the two of them as close as she’s ever felt. She can feel Sarah’s lashes twitch against her shoulder, the uneven catch of her breath, and Sarah’s hand still loosely held over hers on the floor. She never wants it to end.

Eventually, Sarah stirs. She looks up and sees Cosima and only then seems to recall where she is. She recoils immediately.

“Jesus, Cos - I - shite, did I hurt you? Let me just -” and she’s pulling out before Cosima’s gotten the warning. She can’t help the flinch. Sarah doesn’t miss it.

“Shitshitshit. I’m sorry. Can I - let’s get you into the shower, okay? We can cuddle, I’ll make it up to you -” and she falls silent because Cosima’s hands are on her hips, pulling her back down.

“I’m fine,” she says after a moment, turning her head to press a chaste kiss against Sarah’s forehead. “It’s fine. You don’t always have to worry.”

Sarah wriggles, uncomfortable. It takes her a long moment to say, “I really don’t want to hurt you.”

There are so many layers to that statement. There’s Cosima’s illness and Sarah’s tenderness, but also Sarah’s tendency to violence and her failed relationships. There’s their habit of disconnecting, failing to communicate when under threat, their different backgrounds separating them. And there’s types of pain under consideration, emotional and physical both. But somewhere in there, Cosima thinks, there’s also a statement of hope about the future; of them having one both independently and together.

“You didn’t,” she says. “You haven’t, and you won’t.”

Sarah grumbles a little, not quite disagreeing, but she settles down against her again. She pulls Cosima’s skirt from her waist, smoothing it down tenderly, before turning her face into Cosima’s shoulder.

 Cos puts her arm around her, looking up at the ceiling, and exhales. She has no idea what’s going to happen when Delphine finally gets back, but for the first time in a long time, she has hope.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the dirtiest thing I ever wrote by a long shot, so... let me know if you're into that.


End file.
